


Height Difference

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:12:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles from tumblr about height differences</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin

**Author's Note:**

> These are drabbles from tumblr that I thought I'd put here before I lose them. I'm leaving it as incomplete just in case I get inspired to add more. Enjoy!

* * *

At first, Thorin did not believe he could have heard Bilbo correctly. There was a possibility, however slim, that he has misheard him and he felt it best to clarify. “I beg your pardon?”

"I said kneel down, here, right here," Bilbo said impatiently. As though he expected that Thorin should already be on the floor before him.

He stood for an endless moment, considering. Never in his life had he knelt before another; his own grandfather required nothing more of his heirs than a simple bow of respect. Even the lowliest of Dwarf Lord’s did not simply bend a knee to another and Thorin stood as King Under the Mountain, Heir to the Throne of Durin, the seven Dwarf families swore fealty to him, their armies united at his will.

And without protest, he slid to his knees and looked up at Bilbo, waiting on his word and will.

To his surprise, Bilbo cupped his face in both hands and tipped it up, palms warm even through the cushion of his beard and covered Thorin’s mouth with his own. Soft lips, eager kisses, and the tender flick of his a tongue against his own. Thorin matched it with his own willingness, allowed Bilbo the plunder of his mouth. Tasted his sweetness, the strange pairing of honey cakes and pipe weed, a heretofore unknown delicacy, until they were both panting, mouths damp and swollen.

He knelt on cold stone, making silent promises to Bilbo as he waited for him to catch his breath.

Bilbo rested his forehead against Thorin’s, threading a clever hand into the length of his hair to stroke through the soft curls before he murmured. “That’s better. I do get weary of getting a crick in my neck.”

Almost, Thorin laughed, choked back the sound. Of course. Bilbo asked for none of what Thorin was willing to give, demanded nothing, neither coin, nor jewel, nor blood oath. Instead, he stole another kiss, as sweet as the first, tender as the lover Thorin had not yet known.

Thorin, King Under the Mountain, knelt before his love and gave him silent promises, unknown oaths that would nonetheless be kept until the end of his days. And kisses, yes, he lifted his head to each sweet, eager kiss, obeying the insistence of Bilbo’s hands as they tipped his head this way and that.

It would not do for Bilbo get a crick in his neck.

* * *


	2. Bilbo

* * *

When Bilbo was a child, back in those long ago, half-remembered days, he’d dreamed of rich adventures and wondrous creatures. Before oft-whispered sayings took hold within him, murmuring of the dangers of venturing East, Bilbo had wished for journeys, quests; he’d fought Orcs and Goblins in his childish fantasies and rescued his toys from a gruesome demise at their fiendish hands with the point of his wooden sword.

Ah, the imaginings he’d had as child; strange how they did not hold up when a true adventure was laid before him.

The main thing his innocent mind had never conjured into his playtimes was how terribly large the world was. Not the distance of it, no, Bilbo’s maps had been very clear on that. It was everything else, everything was simply too big, too tall, too much of it all.

At home in Bag End, everything was quite the proper size; his feet didn’t dangle when he sat in the chairs, he didn’t get ale up his nose every time he sipped from a too-large mug. Bilbo was not considered anything but the correct height in the Shire, perhaps even a bit on the tall side. To go from looking folk in the eye to having to crane his neck to see their face was a disturbing conversion.

And for all that chairs and walls and _people_ were bigger, it was in its way almost claustrophobic. The world of Men and Elves surrounding him, crushing him in, making him feel ever smaller until surely he would be engulfed in this world and lost.

It was only the first time he found himself in Thorin’s arms, weary beyond measure and leaning back into the comfortable breadth of his chest, that Bilbo felt the seeping realization of a difference.

He was smaller than Thorin, certainly, shorter and slimmer both. And yet, instead of crushed, he felt cradled. Instead of surrounded, he felt comforted by Thorin’s warmth and the strength in the arms around him. Bilbo caught Thorin’s wrists in his hands, circled them with his fingers and felt the sturdy bones amidst the pulse of his heartbeat.

Thorin’s chin rested lightly on Bilbo’s shoulder, tipping their heads together, the both of them nearly asleep and whether he was holding Bilbo to keep him safe or simply to prop himself up did not matter. Sitting, they were close to the same height, measured not by the world around them but only by each other, and Bilbo did not feel small in the least.

* * *


End file.
